


A Griffin's Squire

by rawrkinjd



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Consensual Underage Sex, Dubious Consent, Frottage, Inspired By The Trial of The Linens, Kaer Seren, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rimming, The Witcher Lore, Voyeurism, Witcher Trials
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29490168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: The School of the Griffin cares deeply about the fate of their fledglings. Those that die during the Trials are buried with full honours, and those that survive are kept at the keep longer than any other school. Furthermore, the griffins ensure they are fully equipped to face a hostile existence and still maintain the knightly values the school holds dear, by pairing them with another Witcher. A knight and his squire. The squire is expected to serve his knight in all ways and learn every lesson the knight has to teach.This is the story of Griffin Witcher Coën, and his Trial of the Squire.
Relationships: Coën (The Witcher) & Keldar (The Witcher), Coën (The Witcher) & Original Character(s), Coën (The Witcher)/Erland of Larvik, Coën (The Witcher)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 55
Kudos: 50





	1. Prologue: A Primer

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Trial of the Linens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20638268) by [Dira Sudis (dsudis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/pseuds/Dira%20Sudis). 



> “Underage” here means sixteen and above. This doesn’t count as “underage” in my native country (our age of consent is sixteen), but I have tagged for underage because I understand that there is sensitivity around this issue. There will be explicit sexual intercourse between sixteen-year-old, pre-medallion initiates and adult Witchers. There is a significant age gap and power imbalance.

* * *

Trial of the Squire 

_The School of the Griffin cares deeply about the fate of their fledglings. Those that die during the Trials are buried with full honours, and those that survive are kept at the keep longer than any other school. Furthermore, the griffins ensure they are fully equipped to face a hostile existence and still maintain the knightly values the school holds dear._

_When a griffin witcher comes of age and appropriate height - sixteen and five foot six inches - then he’s taken as a squire for four years by an experienced witcher. The squire must serve his witcher in all ways and, in return, he will learn the skills he needs to survive in a vicious world. At eighteen, he will recite the Liber or claim his griffin’s egg. At twenty, he will spend the first year on the Path at his knight’s side._

* * *

Character Primer (in order of appearance): 

  * **Coën** \- the hero of our story, Coën appears in the Witcher saga very briefly in the Blood of Elves. A friend of the wolves, Coën spends the winter with them. He’s known to be kind, patient and noble.
  * **Merek** \- a griffin mentor in charge of the fledglings (from eight years to sixteen); he works the kitchens, oversees their wellbeing and the timetable for their training. Coën is fond of him.
  * **Keldar** \- the griffin archivist. He’s known to be forthright and a bit blunt with his criticism, but he’s a treasure trove of stories and Coën has many fond memories of him. Keldar is known to avoid ‘physical intimacy’ (Keldar is ace).
  * **Tarin -** Keldar’s young apprentice. A year older than Coën, he has scruffy red hair, is tall and athletically built, but walks with a limp due to a training accident.
  * **Ulric** \- a griffin mentor in charge of the chicks (from babies to seven years). He’s gruff, but patient. He corrals the older students in to assist him and rewards them with pie.
  * **Rowan** \- Coën’s best friend at Kaer Seren. They would grow apart later—he didn’t believe as ardently in the griffin’s knightly code as Coën—but while Coën lives within the castle walls, Rowan is his confidant.
  * **Ealdred** \- a griffin witcher from the path. He was accompanied by Rodolf Kazamer, a dwarven salesman specialising in weapons and armour (and an academic on the side). When asked by Rodolf why he kept being a witcher, he shrugged and said he knew nothing else.
  * **Aibnat -** a Keep Mother, approximately twenty years of age. She’s Ofiri in origin and was collected by Ealdred as a child surprise (in a Kovirian port). She remembers enough of her culture to observe some of their customs, is highly intelligent and doesn’t suffer fools. _Aibnat_ means _daughter_ in Ofiri.
  * ******Remy, Big Berty and Grant -** griffin witchers that take on Coën’s classmates as their squires.



* * *

Griffin Rituals 

  * Trial of the Squire: the process a young griffin witcher goes through to prepare him for the Path.
  * Tattoos: a griffin Witcher’s skin is the story of his life. Every tattoo has significance. In the early stages, there’s a uniform code to mark passing each Trial, coming of age, and setting out on the Path alone. From that point on, each griffin chooses his own symbolism.
  * Sleeping Griffins: a game played with the chicks to teach them discipline and self control. 
  * Keep Mothers: sometimes a child surprise is female. Those that can’t be taken on by the Temple of Melitele are brought back to the Keep where they assist in chores; everything from accounting, to farming labour, to laundry. They’re treated with unfaltering respect; any transgressions against them are met with swift and savage reprisal. All griffin Witchers address them as "ma'am" ( _marm_ ), but Erland refers to them affectionately as his little sisters. Some say this is his way of honouring Jagoda, the sister he lost to the trials.
  * Cliff Running: this is the griffin’s version of “the Killer”. Trainees clamber over the craggy rock faces above the churning seas to prove their mettle.



* * *

**Kaer Seren (Kaer y Seren)**

_"Within the castle’s courtyard, a standing stone stood, erected by elves centuries ago at a confluence of air magic. No doubt its presence was the reason the mages had the castle built."_

* * *


	2. Coming of Age

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coën's coming of age is marked with the usual rituals and banquet.

Merek chalked a line on the doorframe about Coën’s head with a triumphant bark. “Well,” the old witcher grunted, swiping chalk dust from the Coën’s short-cropped, curled hair, “there you are. A man now.” 

Coën stepped away and turned to review his chalk mark for authenticity. Merek used to tease the fledglings a little in their early years, dropping or raising the mark depending on how he felt. He’d always rectify it in the end, though. Keldar didn't tolerate incomplete or inaccurate records. Coën’s height would be recorded alongside the date and his age. His sixteen winters had come and gone, but he’d still been too slight to be considered a man fit for squireship. 

Merek rose to his full height again and placed the chalk on a tall ledge covered in various colours of powder and a few carvings of songbirds. Their mentor liked whittling while they scrambled up trees to collect the crossbow bolts he let off. Occasionally he’d shout encouragement, suggest a better path through the gnarled limbs, but mostly he liked to let the boys learn and fall by themselves. “Easier to make mistakes and fall on your arse here than out on the Path,” he’d say.

“Sire,” Coën called him back, his gaze still on the uneven line that marked his passage into adulthood, “when do the witchers start… how do they decide?” Merek had always been Coën’s first port of call for advice, because the old witcher looked and talked like him. They were both from western Poviss, where the colour of people’s skin was more diverse, with Skelligers and other more distant travellers arriving on the shores to intermingle and marry. Many others in the school were darker even than him, but Coën found a certain comfort in a face that reminded him of before. The sides of Merek’s head were shaven, with carefully woven braids of sandy blonde pulled into a tail from the top. 

“Hard to say,” Merek grumbled, moving some pots out of the sink with a quiet oath. His new batch of bastion boys wasn’t quite up to scratch yet. “Your name will be announced at dinner tonight, and then you’re marked as available. Just… don’t take the first proposition, boy. It doesn’t matter how good the man is in bed; it’s whether or not he can swing a sword, teach you the skills you want and need. Teach you to survive out there. Are we clear?”

Coën swallowed. The first bit was the part he dreaded. He’d heard the grunts and quiet mewls of his dorm mates over the last few months. Once they were chosen, they slept in their knight’s quarters with them, but before that, they stayed in their own bed and were available to anyone who wanted to take their measure. Having spoken to a few, Coën knew the experience could range from uncomfortable to painful, with a few admitting to finding pleasure in it somewhere. It depended on the witcher. 

“And you won’t consider—?”

“Coën,” Merek sighed, finally turning back. “You want to be a steward for the fledglings? You want to spend your entire life inside these four walls, cleaning up piss and shit, teaching little ones to climb trees and hold swords. And if you say _yes,_ I’ll mark you as a liar, and we’ll be parting ways.”

“I just—.”

“You’re scared,” Merek left the sink, his yellow eyes soft in the late afternoon light, and scrubbed Coën’s head once more, “and that’s natural. Fear keeps us safe. It makes us approach new things with caution, lest they rise and snap our arms off. But you were built for better things—nobler things—than can be found inside the walls of Kaer Seren.”

Coën left with a rusk of biscuit and a slip of paper containing his height. He scoffed the biscuit down before he arrived at the library, wiping the crumbs from his mouth and hands. Keldar was sitting at a tall dais, his white-feathered quill working swiftly over a booklist. The archivist reminded Coën of a hawk. His features were narrow, his eyes sharp, and his reflexes legendary. Not to mention the sheer strength of his signs; the rumour was that Keldar could Axii even Grandmaster Erland. “Young Coën,” Keldar called him forward, and Coën bowed respectfully.

“Not so young anymore, sire,” he beamed as he passed his slip of paper up. The archivist took it with two raised eyebrows, reviewed Merek’s untidy scribble, and then the stern turn of his lips broke into a small smile.

“Well, congratulations,” said Keldar, slipping from his high seat to collect the appropriate annals. “I thought for a time that you would remain Little Coën for the rest of your days.”

“Sire,” Coën blustered, but there was no edge to it. He was fond of the archivist. They spent many an evening talking about myth and legend in the alcove by the window; Coën loved stories, especially those that contained a righteous hero overcoming a morally grey world, and Keldar was a walking library full of them. Keldar mumbled to himself as he navigated the rows of composite manuscripts, the order known only to him and the apprentice currently toiling away in the section of the library dedicated to aquatic beasts. 

For a time, Coën had hoped that Keldar would choose him as a squire. The fantasy of spending the rest of his days reading stories and absorbing knowledge was certainly an appetising one. But Ser Keldar had selected a boy in the year above Coën; Tarin. 

Tarin was slight and athletic, with a keen mind and a thick Skelliger accent. He had quite a pronounced limp, too. A few years earlier, he’d fallen from the scaffolds and shattered the bone in his thigh. The mages had done their best, but some of the damage was permanent. Already grassed, he’d earned something from the school, and so Keldar stepped forward to claim him. It was an easy time. Everyone knew that Keldar had no interest in physical intimacy, and so the boy’s duties were based solely in the library, with a few chores here and there to maintain their small household.

“Ah, here we are,” Keldar called from behind a shelf and then carried the heavy manuscript to the dais. “A to D, year of our… holy lady, 1208. Now, where’s my—ah, yes, right.” Dust puffed from between ancient pages as Keldar turned them over, his quill wiped carefully over the edge of his inkpot, before he began to write the details neatly in the appropriate columns. Coën gazed up at the high, vaulted ceilings of the library and wondered whether his knight would still allow him time to read adventure stories. “Coën,” Keldar called.

He approached the dais and took the quill from Keldar’s hand, following his finger to the line that should contain his name. Coën paused, gaze running down the list of men before him. Every name started with ‘C’—he recognised some from the legends they shared around the dinner table—and every single one had headed out on the Path to serve the continent. He took yet another step in joining them now and wrote his name in the neat calligraphy expected. Keldar puffed appreciatively, whisking the feather from his fingers with a pat to the back of his head.

“I know you have suffered more than some,” Keldar said softly, “and I am proud of you, Coën. Proud of the man you are and the witcher you will become.” He leaned down to blow across the ink, and Coën puffed out his chest. Many within the school had thought Coën a lost cause when the Trial of Dreams went badly for him. His eyes had suffered during the mutation process. Instead of a clear, sunstone yellow, they had turned a sickly greenish hue, with veins of red through the sclera. The mages expected Coën to wake blind, but he’d woken clear-sighted and aching like the others. It wouldn’t be the last time Coën overcame the odds to come out on top. 

“Thank you, sire,” Coën bowed again, pausing to wave at Tarin when his red hair popped up from behind a shelf. The rest of the day would be occupied by training drills if Coën hadn’t offered to help Master Ulric with the chicks that afternoon. Coën was to play ‘sleeping griffins’ with the younger ones while Ulric taught the older chicks their letters. It was intended to be an exercise in discipline and control, and, you know, it _could_ be. Coën just wasn’t very good at being serious.

A few hours later, the trainees—some as young as three winters—sprawled out before him, limbs splayed and eyes closed. Some had turned their faces into their forearms as an extra measure to keep them from giggling as Coën stepped over them. “Well, well, well,” Coën proclaimed, “a nest of sleeping griffin chicks. I wonder which ones will survive the witcher’s prowl, hm?” A few giggles rose the sprawl, but he let them off.

Ulric taught the older ones at the far end of the hall. The majority were carefully scratching their letters on tablets under the master’s instruction, but a few kept glancing over their shoulders wistfully. If they worked hard, Master Ulric might let them have their own game at the end. Coën gave the chicks a little longer to hold their breath in anticipation before he began his prowl. He placed his feet softly upon the moth-eaten rugs covering the cold flagstones, setting his toes down so that they were close to brushing stray knees and elbows. “Fee-fi-fo-fum,” he rumbled, imitating the giants he’d read about in the library, “for my broth, I need a griffin’s tongue.” 

A giggle to his left. _Ah-ha! His first victim._ “What’s this?” He turned swiftly and crouched by the quivering form that had mistakenly made noise. The lad could be no older than four; he was still covered in puppy fat, his arms and legs podgy and soft. That would be worked off of him in a year, and he’d look more like the gangly lads sitting with their tablets. “A noisy little chick.” Coën dropped onto his hands and leaned in close; the boy was practically vibrating with the effort to keep his giggles inside. _Too late, my friend, I’ve got you._ “Is that—? Was that a little coo—? I think I—, hm, need to get a little closer, _coo-coo,_ is that what I heard?”

Others were beginning to disintegrate. He could hear low puffs of breath as they tried to subdue their mirth, but he’d already selected his ‘victim’ for this round. The lad shook; Coën could see his jaw clenching, his eyes screwing shut tighter. _Ahh, a challenge._ He lowered himself onto his stomach and placed his face as close as possible. “You’re safe from the witcher while you lie still, little chick,” he whispered. “He can’t touch you, but he can get really—,” he shifted, “—really—,” a little nearer, “—close until you’re practically kissing—and—ah-ha! Gotcha!” 

The boy burst into a fit of breathless giggles, and Coën scooped him from the floor, holding him aloft above his head. “I have my prize!” The rest erupted from the floor, screeching and laughing, flapping their arms. He dropped the lad into his arms and pretended to eat his nose, only to be swarmed by the other chicks. “Hey, hey, wait!” Buckling dramatically onto the floor, Coën released his captive and began patting away his assailants. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Witchers are lone hunters,” they shouted in a messy chorus, voices overlapping, “but even a lone hunter needs a helping hand now and then!” It was no use. He was overcome by tens of small bodies clambering at him. Chuckling and wrestling, Coën managed to get up to his knees, a boy tucked under each arm and another clinging to his back. It seemed he’d come rather underprepared for this particular hunt. 

“Coën!” barked a gruff voice from the other end of the hall, “get those chicks under control, or it’ll be chamber pot emptying for the lot of you!” 

The chicks scattered, and Coën pulled an apologetic face towards the writing class. “Sorry, Master Ulric,” he called, and the chicks around him tittered quietly, shuffling from foot to foot. “Come on; we’ll go practice climbing the trees outside the east wing.”

***

It took two days for Coën’s name to be announced alongside three others who had all come of age in the last month. Grandmaster Erland had been away on a diplomatic mission. He was one of the few leaders within the order who willingly stepped in to assist as a political adviser. The jarls of Skellige had requested him as a mediator for a dispute over fishing rights. As one of their own and renowned for his neutrality, he’d managed to navigate his way through the intricate rituals, familial rivalries and diplomatic pitfalls to reach a solution, and now he returned home to roost.

“Must’ve been quite the summit, he looks knackered,” Rowan mumbled at Coën’s side, his gaze on the High Table at the far end of the room.

“Yeah. But those Skelligers throw one hell of a party, too.” Coën grinned, and Rowan smirked back. Rowan had been brought to Kaer Seren the same year as Coën. He was an inch or so taller, with auburn hair he’d shaved into the typical griffin style, his braids wound neatly in a bun at the back of his head. His features were more Nordling than Coën’s, with a narrower nose and higher cheekbones, but their builds were similar; muscular but still a little willowy. 

“You booked in for your tattoo yet?”

“Not yet,” Coën replied, picking over the pottage before him. “Haven’t figured out where I want it.” It was a simple outline of a griffin’s head, with wings flared over the top. Every stage of a young griffin’s journey—of a griffin witcher’s entire life—was marked upon his skin. It was a tradition that dated back to the very first of them. Coën’s gaze turned up to the High Table again, and he examined each craggy face until he reached that of his Grandmaster.

If you took Erland of Larvik’s shirt off his back, you would see the story of the Order, rising and falling, drawn upon his bronze skin. He had the griffin’s head on the side of his own, with its feathered body devolving into spirals down his neck and shoulders. The more accomplished a griffin witcher was, the more ink he had. Erland was the most accomplished of them all. The First Witcher. A god amongst men.

“Most have it on the left side of their chest,” Rowan patted his own, “like over the heart? Because that’s where the school should always be.” 

“Is that where yours is going?”

“Dunno,” Rowan shrugged, cramming his mouth full of bread. “I figured something meaningful should go over your heart, right? I was going to leave it for my first girlfriend. Maybe get a nice rose, or a daffodil, you know, because she’s going to be _gorgeous._ ” 

“By the gods,” Coën laughed, rolling his eyes. “You’re so predictable.”

“As predictable as the tide!”

They toasted their mugs of watered-down ale and knocked it back. Others jostled in around them, and Coën listened to news of the day’s antics and a story that had been brought back by one of the witchers from the Path. Ealdred, a witcher that travelled with a dwarven professor, had wrestled a muzzle onto a werewolf so that the academic could study it more closely. “With his bare hands,” the trainee telling the story said, with wide eyes. 

“I call bullshit,” Rowan snorted. “Only way to deal with a werewolf is to cut it down as quickly as possible. If the fight lasts longer than ten minutes, you’re done.”

“Agreed,” Coën nodded.

“Yeah, well.” The trainee folded his arms, eyes narrowed. He was a weasley fellow, eyes set too close together, ears too big. Like the gods had pieced the lad together with bits leftover on the cutting room floor. “We’ll see if Ealdred winters at home this year, won’t we?” 

“Wanna put some of your biscuit rations on it?” Rowan leaned forward keenly, but his bartering was cut short by the dull thud of a tankard hammering on the High Table. The hall fell silent, and Erland stood.

“Brothers,” he bellowed over the heads of those gathered, and then turned to the small group of women—the Keep Mothers—sat at a table to his right side, “little sisters,” his head bowed respectfully, “Tonight marks a special milestone for some amongst us. Those who claim their place this evening stand.”

Several benches scraped across the uneven cobblestones as four boys—now to be regarded as men—stood awkwardly. Many witchers had returned to the keep for the winter. There were seven instructors, Keldar, Erland and a visiting druid at the High Table, fifty boys of varying ages, and fifteen witchers from the Path. Too many pairs of eyes that prickled over Coën’s skin and made his chest ache. 

He dared look at the High Table again, and for a breathless moment, he locked eyes with the Grandmaster. Until this moment, he was certain he’d been a nameless young face amongst many, but now he was _seen._ Those intense amber eyes studied him carefully, weighing him, with his sickly eyes and tawny skin, before they passed onto Rowan. Coën let out one shuddering breath and felt Rowan’s hand nudge against his. He glanced down and saw his forefinger and thumb curl into a circle: we’re okay. Coën’s chest felt a little looser after that.

Keldar passed Erland a small scrap of parchment, and Erland read their names in a clear voice that rang off the wooden beams in the tall, vaulted ceiling. With each new name, the young man’s peers seated around him, bashed their tankards against the tables, deepening their voices as much as they could. Erland paused to allow the noise to die down each time. “Favian, Zane, Rowan and Coën.” The tremor around the two friends took a little longer to fade, and Coën couldn’t help but cast Rowan a small grin.

Erland placed the paper down before him and picked up his goblet. The hall filled with noise again, the scraping of benches, the jangle of buckles and murmur of voices. Ulric and Merek pulled the chicks and fledglings to their feet, allowing those that could be trusted to hold tankards in their tiny hands. “Tonight, you become part of history, gentlemen,” he growled, his Skelliger accent hinting at the edges, “a long and noble history. Those that have walked the Path before you wrote the first chapters with their blood, and now it falls to you to write the rest, to forge a future built on honour and sacrifice.” 

His eyes dropped briefly. Coën had never noticed it before. The tightening of his jaw, the flick of his gaze downwards, as if to collect himself. Coën had always assumed the pause was for dramatic effect and was often too interested in the griffin witchers on the long table next to them to really measure it. “Ayd f'haeil moen Hirjeth taenverde!” The toast reverberated around the hall in a roar, and every witcher drank; Coën almost forgot, but Rowan nudged the cup in his hand pointedly to remind him.

They drank to valour. They drank to the brothers they’d lost on the Path. They drank to the hope that their values would prevail over the hurdles placed before them by distrust and prejudice. And then, feeling rather light-headed, they fell back onto their benches and began wolfing down the feast prepared by Merek and the Keep Mothers for the occasion. Kaer Seren was not known for its sprawling banquets—Erland leaned more towards the _monastic_ in how he preferred his school to live—but on special occasions, the cooks could really outdo themselves.

The noise in the hall grew louder as the hours ticked by. Ulric gathered his charges up as they began to yawn widely, flopping against the tables when they dozed off by accident, and Coën watched the big griffin gather his chicks to his chest three at a time. Despite his stern visage, Coën knew Ulric to have a heart of pure lamb’s wool. “Soft as a cloud,” Coën said out loud, and Rowan snorted into his tankard. The Keep Mothers finished their meal and headed off to help with tucking in while Merek clapped his hands at the fledglings, who all left the hall obediently (after a little bit of grumbling).

Several hours later, after much revelry, the Grandmaster stood and called the feast to a close. He swept down the aisle between the two main tables, and Coën felt the billow of the cloak at his shoulders brush by his back. Keldar walked at Erland’s side and paused to give Coën a gentle pat on the shoulder before disappearing with the others from the High Table.

“Urgh, you know, if he could take more than one squire, he’d pick you,” Rowan grumbled. “You’re such an instructor’s pet.”

“You know why, right? It’s because I’m polite. I don’t try and smuggle food into the library or draw dicks in the corner of my notes.”

“I’ll have you know,” Rowan began picking up bottles, shaking them to test their contents. “My dicks have become very anatomically accurate over the years. I can even draw the dicks of other species.”

“I’m sure Master Leofrick would be very impressed,” Coën said, rolling his eyes as he stood, swaying a little. Their instructor in monster biology and behaviour had little patience for idiots, which wasn’t a very helpful description if Coën were honest because most griffin instructors didn’t suffer idiots. _Oh,_ _he was just too bloody drunk._ “C’mon, let’s’go’t’bed.” 

“Yeah, yeah, just let me—ah-ha!”

They stumbled back to their dormitory. The others would be asleep by now, some passed out drunk, others with their pillows over their head to drown out the snores. Coën carried his friend as they chuckled and sang old Skelliger sea shanties they’d learned from older witchers, trying to stop the smuggled bottles of ale from clinking together beneath their shirts. “The glass,” Rowan slurred, “is cold. It’s _colder_ than a bear’s heart.” 

“If it were colder than a bear’s heart, then you’d be dead.”

“Ha-ha. Yeah, or your face would be fu—Master Erland.”

The two boys stood abruptly, swaying on the spot to appear soberer than they were because their Grandmaster stood before them, blocking the way to their quarters. He stood in his cloak and armour still, a bunch of white flowers clutched in one hand. They both knew where he was headed; Jagoda’s grave. The grave he dug himself many decades ago. Every time a batch of boys survived the grasses and came of age, he visited; every time he returned from a diplomatic mission, successful or not. He took her native blooms from wherever he ventured or simply from the castle’s greenhouse. No one followed him usually, but one winter, a fledgling had hidden in one of the tall windows to listen. He talked to Jagoda as if she sat beside him on the stone bench. 

“You’d be wise to watch your drinking, boys,” the Grandmaster looked between them carefully. He wasn’t of any impressive height, shorter than many of his instructors, in fact, but Coën had never felt smaller. “You never know what damage a stray word said while in your cups could do.” 

“Yessir,” they stammered in unison and hastily moved out of the grandmaster’s path.

“Goodnight.” Erland walked by, the bouquet held at his side, and the two young witchers stood in stunned silence until his footsteps faded. Coën jammed his elbow into Rowan’s side.

“Devil take it,” he hissed. “He thinks we were taking the piss out of him.”

“Well, —, ow!”

“No, c’mon, let’s go to bed before Arnaghad appears next to slap us into next week.” 

They shoved their way into the dormitory and flopped onto their narrow cots. Coën woke up with a dry mouth halfway through the night and pulled Rowan’s furs back over him. In the silence, he could hear the sea crashing against the rocks below the castle’s walls. Enchantments and spells kept the rock face from weathering away under the constant barrage of the ocean, but Coën had always been very aware of just how precariously the castle sat on the cliffs. A bird upon a perch, ready to take flight. Nothing in a witcher’s life was permanent; even his home seemed to be built to remind him that everything could vanish at a moment’s notice.

Tomorrow they would go Cliff Running with some of the older trainees. It would be an opportunity for the witchers that had arrived for the winter, and the instructors, to review the four of them. Taking on a squire was a huge undertaking; it was a dedication of four years. Four years to turn the boy into a man—a knight—worthy of carrying the medallion he claimed at eighteen. 

The Trial of the Squire scared Coën more than any of the others before. In the coming weeks, the older witchers would visit his bed, talk with him, watch him train, weigh him, judge him. The risk of failure was high. He had nearly failed one trial already, and his eyes were a mark against him, he knew. There was a chance that no one would take him on willingly, and the shame would crush him.

Coën listened to the waves underpinned by his peers' soft snores and tried to let them lull him to sleep. The noise in his mind was still too loud.


	3. A Difficult Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anxiety gets the better of Coën and he struggles to demonstrate just how brilliant he is.

The hangover wasn’t as bad as expected. Rowan dunked his head in a bucket of water and blew loud bubbles as Coën dressed behind him. When he resurfaced, Rowan slicked his auburn braids over his head and bound them together with a strip of linen. “Did I dream badmouthing the Grandmaster in front of him, or did that actually happen?”

“That actually happened,” Coën groaned, scrubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Let’s just hope half the castle hasn’t found out.” 

“Think Master Erland’s a gossip?”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

They traipsed out into the courtyard for morning meditation. Master Keldar sat in the very centre by the stone of power, his palms flat against his thighs, and raised an eyebrow at the two late arrivals. _Not a brilliant start._ Several of the older witchers glanced up; their eyes held the weight of evaluation, and Coën swallowed thickly, keeping his own trained on the flagstones. Flavian huffed as he shuffled aside to make space. “Trust you two idiots to be late on your first day as—.”

“Hush,” Keldar called from the front, and Rowan wiggled his eyebrows at Flavian before tucking his chin to his chest. They closed their eyes and followed Keldar’s guidance. As they breathed in and out slowly, everyone gathered could feel the thrum of power emanating from the stone; it coaxed them closer with a silent call that only a witcher, a Source or a sorcerer could feel in their bones. 

Coën tried to focus. He forced his eyes shut until he felt the tension in his temples, but no matter how hard he concentrated, he could still feel his heart above anything else. It hammered against his ribcage, thundered through his ears and choked his airways; too much, too loud. Suddenly, there were too many people crowded in at his sides, the press of bodies closing in, stealing his air until he existed in a vacuum. 

Before his wits could prevail and bring him back to focus, Coën staggered to his feet, falling over Rowan and a witcher from the Path in his haste to reach the corridor again. Doors were open somewhere, and the cold, salty air that whipped in from the oceans burned in his lungs as he panted against the wall. 

“Coën?” asked a soft voice to his right, and he stood up quickly. When he turned, he looked into the sharp green eyes of one of the Keep Mothers. Mother was a bit of a misnomer for Aibnat, though; she was only a few years older than Coën. Her olive Ofiri features smooth and unblemished despite her decade spent on the coast. There were a few strands of copper and brown through her mane of black hair where the sun had kissed it. He felt the cool stones of her bracelet against his cheek as she patted him on the jaw. Ofiri wore them for good luck, and Coën hoped privately that some would rub off on him. “Are you unwell?” 

“Witchers don’t get ill,” he croaked stupidly, and received a pursed-lip scowl for his troubles.

“Hmm, come.” She dumped her basket of sewing in the corridor and grabbed his wrist. Someone else would stumble across her abandoned chore and return it to its rightful place; Coën knew that Aibnat was a big believer in dealing with immediate problems first. An annoyed seamstress was the least of her worries. 

Coën allowed himself to be led, grumbling quietly about getting into trouble for skipping out on meditation, and blinked as they stepped out into one of the numerous gardens surrounding the keep. Erland had cultivated many of the herbs and plants he’d accessed at Castle Morgraig as a young man so that his mages and witchers could continue to innovate with potions. Some of them didn’t take well to coastal climes, but those that survived flowered beautifully, filling the small, sunny space with sweet scents. Coën felt calmer before Aibnat had even tugged him onto the bench. 

“Talk,” she said, tossing black curls over her shoulder before folding her hands in her lap. She was wearing a simple linen dress embroidered with flowers and runes by her own hand; a bright yellow headband sat in her hair to keep her fringe from her eyes as she worked, and not for the first time Coën decided she was very beautiful indeed. 

“It’s… nothing,” he said, haltingly.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that look. I… it’s a hangover. We drank a lot.”

“I saw,” she sighed. “And then you took some _with you_ to bed. So very sensible.” 

“Did you bring me out here to lecture me about my drinking habits, or—?”

“No,” she nudged his arm, “all-important matters should be discussed outside, with gods as our witnesses. You know that.” 

“Nat, I—,” he rubbed his hands over his face, then stared at the open, blue sky. “I’m worried no one will pick me.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She folded her arms. “But those witchers would be even greater fools if they overlooked you.”

“Is that a compliment?” Coën teased.

“I don’t give compliments,” Aibnat said lightly, “I give… hm, observations. You’re a good witcher already. You’re quick and accurate. Good with Signs. Worse with the sword than Rowan, but better with the crossbow.”

Coën couldn’t help but smile. Aibnat evaluated them like they were cards in her Gwent deck (a game she was, admittedly, very good at), and if Rowan heard her, he would flush to the very tips of his ears. His crush was well-known, even by Aibnat herself. But Keep Mothers were warned by their elders to avoid relationships with witchers because a witcher's life was a solitary one of pure hardship. There was a high chance every year that your lover would not return. “Love your brothers equally,” the matron says at every weekly briefing, “but do not let them take your heart with them on the Path.” 

“What I’m saying,” Aibnat continued, “is, when you consider it all logically, rather than emotionally, that you may be a fool; a noble, worrying fool, but those witchers would be true imbeciles if they did not clamber over each other to adopt you as their squire.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’d make a very good witcher?”

“All the time,” she waved at him, “but, you know, breasts.” She cast him a sly little look because she _knew_ he’d get a little bashful at the mention of her womanly assets. “Are you worried about anything else?”

“Not something I would be comfortable discussing with—uh, a lady.”

“A lady,” she repeated flatly. “Well, suit yourself. I could’ve given you some tips on how to—oh, Rowan.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Rowan said as he stepped out into the sunlight, narrowed eyes passing between Coën and Aibnat as if he could see the past of their conversation floating in the air around them. “Master Keldar sent me to see if you were still alive and, if you were, to inform you that our punishment for being late is to brush down the horses for the new arrivals.”

Coën groaned. “While the others get to run the cliffs?”

“Yeah,” Rowan sighed, trying his best not to stare too openly at Aibnat. He’d written _poetry_ on how beautiful and witty she was; Coën had suffered through it and then suggested they document it with Keldar. For posterity. Such eloquence deserved to be enshrined in the archives. It had earned him a thump on the shoulder. “Come on, if we get started, we might be able to catch the tail end of the ropes.”

“Off with you then,” Aibnat stood, smoothing her palms down the front of her dress. When she came back to do some gardening later, she would wear slacks, but Coën knew she preferred the freedom of her dress whenever she could. She’d said something about the brush of sea air, but his brain had tuned out because the rest qualified as too much information. 

Coën stood, bowed his head respectfully, and departed at Rowan’s side. 

Three new witchers had arrived in the night; they hung up their tack, dragged their bags inside and left their horses with enough hay to keep them comfortable until morning. It fell to the fledglings to get them brushed down and housed properly for the winter. Or two newly minted young men who had overslept. One of the new arrivals, to Rowan’s great satisfaction, was Ealdred. “We’ll see whether that idiot’s story was right,” he said gleefully as he brushed down the huge destrier. 

“More people would like you if you didn’t call them idiots.”

“I’ve called you an idiot for years and you still like me.”

“Yeah,” Coën smirked as he shovelled oats into a deep bucket. “I think that’s because I _actually am_ an idiot.” 

“You know,” Rowan threw the body brush into the wire tray connected to the stable wall and petted the horse’s velvet noses, “she was right. You don’t have anything to worry about, and if it’s the fucking part—.”

“Don’t call it that,” Coën grumbled, unhooking the halter of the horse before him. 

“ _Fucking?_ ” emphasised Rowan, ducking the leather straps hurled at him in retribution. “Come on; you’re going to hear much worse than that on the Path. Do you know what they call professional harlots? _Whores._ They call them _whores,_ Coën.” 

“You’re an ass.” 

“I’m just saying,” Rowan shrugged, “well, I was trying to say, at least we can learn this stuff now, and not when we go out on the Path for the first time alone, you know? Not everything’s like it is here. The world’s darker. Keldar says it all the time.” 

The final statement hung there, and the two boys stared into space. The world was darker. They listened to the stories brought back by the witchers, gazed in awe at their scars and missing features—limbs—and tried to imagine the danger and the darkness that awaited them. The training was no walk in the park. Their bodies were a constant tapestry of bruises, cuts, with the occasional broken bone thrown in for good measure, but in Kaer Seren, they were shielded from the worst of it. 

In Kaer Seren, they lived in a small bubble where all witchers displayed knightly virtues, where people treated each other with respect, and the greatest danger was the Trials. The Trial of the Squire was meant to bridge the protected sphere of the keep and the real world. The transition from childhood to manhood. No transformation was painless, as they already knew. 

They finished with the horses in time to join the rest of their peers inland. The woodlands clung thickly to the mountains' slopes behind the keep, and the griffin witchers had wound a ropes course through the canopies. It contained loose threads, bridges and swinging weights. Rowan held the current record of forty minutes for completion, with Coën falling in a close second at forty-seven minutes. They stood at the beginning and watched the witchers gather on a viewing platform at the rear of the keep. “The first test,” Rowan said cheerfully and sprinted off as soon as the instructor ducked his head. 

Coën felt that now familiar tightness in his chest—the suffocating fear of failure. His friend’s back disappeared into the branches, and he was left standing with Favian, his boot braced on the first rung of the ladder. _Don’t mess this up._ Witchers looked for competence in their squires. A dead weight over the next four years was one thing, but a useless companion on the Path would be a death sentence. Coën could hear his own heart again; it filled his ears and occupied him so thoroughly that he almost missed the instructor's nod. Favian shoved him in the back. “C’mon, hurry! You’re showing us all up.”

The rope course hadn’t changed much in the last few years Coën had run it. It was designed to be somewhat unpredictable, the swinging weights jostled by the winds, the rope bridges occasionally unstable thanks to inquisitive birds. Rowan had once encountered an angry badger that had managed to scramble up one of the ladders, only to get stuck on a rope bridge. It hadn’t been his best time, but the badger was safely returned to its burrow (after much hissing and snarling).

But he might as well be running a completely alien landscape now. He almost missed the first swinging rope, his toes barely making it to the opposite ledge, and the branches creaked ominously beneath his weight as he hopped through them. His arms and legs burned with the effort, the sweat gathered on his brow, and he almost lost his footing on the poles. The netting tangled around his arms and ankles, and he panicked when he heard Flavian scramble through the canopies behind him. 

Coën was slow, inefficient. He slipped three more times before the course was complete—a full hour after he started. Rowan abandoned the small group of younger trainees he was talking with and looped an arm around Coën’s shoulders. “What happened?”

“Slow,” Coën grunted, “I was just slow.”

“It’s alright.” Rowan slapped him on the back and moved away as the instructors appeared over the hill's crest above. They needed to see Coën standing on his own two feet. “There are other ways. Other exercises. They’ll see how brilliant you are.” 

It only got worse as the week progressed. When it was just his peers, Coën performed perfectly. He was top of the class in most things for a reason. _Favourite_ of Keldar _for a reason._ Keldar favoured those with talent and skill, and Coën had both in abundance. Well, he _used to._ As he continued to fail at every task observed by his betters, Coën realised his worst nightmare was coming to fruition. 

He dropped his swords, missed the target with the crossbow, cast shoddy Signs and exploded a flask in the stillroom. Meanwhile, Rowan and the others shone brighter than the stars in the night sky. He could only watch in awe as Rowan flipped over the comb, fully blindfolded, and dodged the missiles fired at him by the instructors. The witchers watched him too. Coën wasn’t surprised on the third night when the dorm room door opened and an unfamiliar shape slipped inside. 

The witcher carried a bowl of water beneath his arm and a flask of oil in his hand. Coën tensed and then rolled over when the witcher passed his cot and settled on Rowan’s. “Are you awake, adept?” he whispered, bowl and bottle placed carefully upon the bedside table.

“Yeah,” Rowan replied. Coën recognised the hesitance in his friend’s voice; Rowan was cocksure and bright. Nothing phased him. He’d talked about ‘fucking’ like it was something that didn’t really bother him, but Coën could hear the slight tremor in his lower lip, _feel_ his body bunch as if it were his own. 

“No need to be frightened,” the witcher murmured. “I’ve been impressed by what I’ve seen.”

“Yeah?” Rowan’s voice brightened. Coën heard the shuffling of blankets and the creak of thin, ancient blanks beneath shifting weight. Their communication was silent, but for a few whispered instructions, Coën dared not lift his head. The two others left in their dormitory were at the far end of the room; Zane had been snoring for the last two hours, but Flavian would be listening as intently as he was.

Soft, wet noises filled the room—their mouths working together, quiet whimpers as the witcher touched Rowan in ways he’d never experienced before from another—and Coën heard the glass flask scrape over the wood grain of their nightstand. “Over you go,” the witcher whispered, and Coën strained to remember his name. Something beginning with ‘R’. He wasn’t one that had taken much interest in the chicks or fledglings, and he didn’t come home that often. The bed creaked again as Rowan shifted, asking quietly for reassurance, “Perfect. Handsome little bastard, aren’t you?”

Coën allowed himself a small smile. Rowan would like that. Despite being _disgustingly_ good looking, he was somewhat self-conscious. It only got worse every time Aibnat looked _through_ him. “Perhaps I’m just not good looking enough for her to notice me,” he’d say over their mutton and bread some evenings. It didn’t matter what Coën said because _of course,_ Coën would say nice things. They were friends. It would mean something coming from a man he respected—a witcher—who had seen his skill on the beams, the combs, the obstacles, with a sword, and decided to offer the first lesson. 

More wet sounds. The rustle of clothing and the clatter of buckled belts. Rowan was dressed in only his nightshirt, and Coën could imagine him on hands and knees, the hem bunched up around his waist. The scent of arousal thickened, worming its way into the gaps under his blanket, between his nose and arm. He knew the smell of Rowan, the hammer of his heart, the quiet gasp as someone—the witcher, himself—touched his prick, but the added scent of the witcher, his soft grunts of approval, awakened new urges deep in Coën’s belly. He opened his mouth to breathe in and felt dizzy with it.

“Ahh,” the first sound of discomfort, hushed by more gentle words and a slick, repetitive noise. Coën had to look. The scent, the sound; he could feel his cock thickening under his hips in response to the picture forming in his mind. The two on the cot were too wrapped up to notice his subtle shift, and he peeked over bicep. He swallowed the gasp of surprise and pushed his hips slowly into the pallaise beneath him.

Rowan was on his front, chest pressed into the bed with his ass presented. He fisted the blankets on either side of his head, face buried in his flimsy pillow to hide whatever expression twisted his features. The witcher knelt behind him, one palm stroking slow, reassuring circles on the small of his back, while the other worked two fingers into his hole. Rowan quivered, his hips bucking in uncontrolled jerks, his soft mewls muffled by the fabric he’d shoved into his own mouth. 

At this angle, even Coën’s enhanced eyes couldn’t pick out the fine details of those fingers or how they moved, but he could see the witcher’s prick, freed from the slacks and braies left to fall down his thighs. It was long and thick, with a slight angle off to one side. The pre-come dripping from the tip gleamed when it caught the moonlight slanting through the window, and a lick of arousal whipped up Coën’s spine. He’d never watched. He always buried his head away. There had only been three older boys in this room. But it had never been this close—if he just kept still, kept quiet, then nobody would know—

“Good, feels good, hm?” the witcher asked, and Coën heard Rowan’s softly gasped ‘yes’. His own hips rocked slowly, desperate for friction against the fabric of his nightshirt and the coarser linens beneath. The saliva welled in the back of his throat, and he realised his mouth was watering at the sight, and the thought of being in Rowan’s place. To have a large, strong hand opening him up and a deep voice purring compliments in his ear. He must have started moving a little too obviously, because when he tilted his head for a better angle, gaze following the line of Rowan’s body, he locked eyes with the witcher. 

Coën froze, lips pressed tightly together, but the witcher just smirked, showing all his teeth. “Lean a little lower,” he instructed, and Rowan arched deeper, obedient. His entire body shuddered when the witcher took his prick and tapped it gently over his hole with a wet slap before lining up. His gaze lifted back to Coën again, two eyebrows quirked, yellow eyes bright and amused. Coën couldn’t breathe. He watched the witcher’s hips sway, heard Rowan whine softly, and realised the whole thing was waiting on his go-ahead. 

Coën swallowed the knot in his throat. To him, it was deafening, but it probably didn’t even register to the others above the wet, filthy noises of the witcher’s cockhead teasing around the rim of Rowan’s ass. Teasing him with what was to come. Coën ducked his chin in a nod. The witcher’s smirk got wider, and he rolled his hips forward a little. Rowan’s back arched, his fingers gripping in the sheets until his knuckles went white. “Relax, you’re doing well, little dove,” the witcher cooed, his head falling back, jaw slack with pleasure.

He worked deeper with each lazy thrust, and Rowan’s body went limp. Two huge hands held narrow hips, and Coën watched the witcher thrust in to the hilt. Rowan shivered and gasped, but the only scent in the room was that of thick lust and precome. The witcher held himself fully seated, his gaze flickered from the fledgling he’d claimed as his to the one only a single cot over, and Coën saw the smirk again. Permission to enjoy the view. Coën spread his legs a little, knees pressing into the mattress, his own hips rocking gently, as the witcher drew back and thrust in again. This time he didn’t pause, grinding forward in a steadily quicker rhythm until the room filled with the wet slap of skin and pants of exertion.

Rowan whined and gasped until the witcher found an angle that made him sob with pleasure; quiet, muffled noises that made Coën’s entire body clench with need. He ground his hips a little harder, pressing his palms into the mattress, fighting the burning desire to touch himself as his best friend fell apart beside him. The filthy squelch of the thick cock thrusting into his ass, spearing him open, while his own drooled wetly into his nightshirt. Coën could hear Rowan’s heart above his own, could taste his sweat and his precome on the air; his toes curled, his back pulled taut, and they came together. Rowan yelped, his entire body seizing, and the witcher fucked him steadily through it. 

Coën felt his own cock pulse beneath him, the wetness spreading through the linens under his belly, and he fought to get his breathing under control before Rowan gathered back enough wits to notice. He heard the witcher come; a low growl, hips grinding, before he flopped forward. Coën was struck by how small Rowan looked beneath that muscular frame; he was larger than life during the day, but now he melted into the mattress beneath the gentle kisses placed along his hairline. “Hmm, ticklish,” the witcher cooed as he pulled out, and Rowan huffed indignantly.

The next part was ritual, but the witcher conducted himself tenderly. He eased Rowan onto his back, brushing the sweaty tendrils of hair from his forehead, and pecked his nose. The bottle of oil, now mostly empty, returned to the nightstand, and the witcher pulled the bowl of water onto the bed. The Sign for igni scorched brightly in the darkness, heating the tepid water until steam curled from the surface. He helped Rowan out of his nightshirt and then wiped him down with a soft washcloth. His face, his chest, his arms, gently between his legs. “Clean clothes in the trunk?” the witcher asked softly.

“Yeah,” Rowan replied; he sounded relaxed now, soft and mellow in his afterglow. The witcher left his side only long enough to root through the trunk for a clean nightshirt and returned to pull it carefully over Rowan’s head.

“Haven’t got your ink for hitting the big 5-6-1-6 yet.”

“Nah, been busy.”

“Hm,” the witcher nodded, and Coën saw him smile again. “I need an update myself. Saved a village from a gnarly relict. Ended half a century of problems for them. Perhaps we can get it done together.” 

Coën didn’t need to look. Rowan’s entire face would be glowing with hero worship. “Y—yeah, I mean, I’d be… uh, I’d be honoured,” he paused, and Coën felt the weight of his gaze for a brief moment, “but I’m… I’ve already promised someone else.”

“Then you must honour your agreement,” the witcher said. The bed creaked as he stood, and Coën heard the rattle of buckles and click of buttons as he closed his trousers again. Rowan must look panicked because the witcher leaned over again and placed their foreheads together. “My destiny and my honour, linked with yours. Sweet dreams, Rowan.”

The witcher gathered the bowl, cloth and bottle from the nightstand and left the dormitory quietly. Rowan flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling. This would be the last night he slept in the dormitory. Tomorrow, he would move his few meagre belongings to his knight’s room, a newly minted squire. He would sleep there and keep his room and possessions well maintained, even during the months, his knight was on the Path without him; Rowan would study his journals and follow the routines set out for him. 

“Coën?” Rowan whispered. Coën didn’t answer. He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep because he wasn’t sure whether he was quite ready to face all of what had happened that night just yet. Rowan hummed softly and curled into a ball. His heart settled quickly, and Coën listened to him snore and snuffle long into the early morning.

***

“So, you’re certain?” Coën poked the apple segments on his plate miserably.

Rowan, who was sitting a little tentatively that morning, hummed. “Yeah, Rowan and Remy; it kinda’ has a ring to it.”

“Did you talk to Keldar about him?”

“Yeah, ‘course I did, I’m not stupid,” Rowan puffed his chest and then dropped his shoulders apologetically. “I went there first thing at sunrise. He made me tea—like, _in_ the library—and then we went through Remy’s annals. He’s _seen some shit,_ Coën. The things I could learn from him.”

“Sounds like a good choice, then,” Coën murmured, elbow set on the table with his jaw on his knuckles. He felt like a shitty friend. On the one hand, he was happy Rowan had been selected (and by a Witcher he wanted rather than one he feared or resented), but on the other, he knew they would be spending less time together that winter. Remy would spend most of the day training Rowan in his expectations, accompanying him in drills and the evenings, well… some training was best done in private. These feelings were selfish. _Coën_ was selfish.

As if he could hear Coën’s thoughts, Rowan hopped over the table and threw an arm around his shoulders. “We’ll still hang out in downtime. No need for the long face.”

Coën took a deep breath and straightened up. He pushed the negativity down as deep as he could and plastered a smile on his face. “I’m happy for you, brother. I was worried I’d have to take you on myself if I’m honest.”

“Haha. We would be the worst thing that happened to the Continent in _a long_ time.” 

“You’re right,” Coën nodded. “Best to keep us apart, really.”

“Mhm.” 

They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence until the others arrived, at which point Mr Idiot threw out his hand towards Rowan expectantly. The werewolf story was true. Four of them had heard it from Ealdred’s own mouth. They had five other fledglings as witnesses. Rowan’s biscuit rations for the month were toast.

The rest of the day was filled with chores. Coën was sent to assist Keldar and Tarin with some reorganisation in the library. There were so few members of the school that Keldar trusted with his precious manuscripts that Coën was often co-opted for the detail. In between breaks, he asked Keldar for Remy’s annals. The old witcher raised his eyebrow but pulled them out anyway and set Coën down on one of the big work tables. Every year the witcher returned with at least three journals. Tarin or Keldar lovingly transcribed those bits that were illegible—too scruffy, blotched with suspect fluids or smeared with damp—then rebound them. 

Coën read about nekker sites and noonwraiths; sirens and harpies; wild dog clearances. This witcher did every kind of contract he was needed for. He found the relict kill after a little bit of searching; a beast that had demanded sacrifices every change of season, that had torn up wheatfields and haunted their nightmares. Remy killed it for a handful of orens and their fattest goose because that’s all they’d had. The relict had destroyed their livelihoods.

“A lot of them are like that, y’know,” Tarin whispered, as if he’d read Coën’s mind and dropped into the seat next to him, “they rescue whole villages for a pittance, then record it like it’s nothin’. Just part of the job.”

“It is part of the job,” Coën said haughtily. “We’re here to protect people from monsters because they’re evil. Like in the stories.”

“If only evil were limited to just monsters.” Keldar had snuck up on them, and they both jumped in their seats. It was easy to forget that Keldar was still a Witcher, with all their skills and dangers attached. “Remy will teach Rowan to recognise all its forms. Now come, break’s over. I need your help shifting Tybalt’s chest to a new location.”

In the afternoon, Keldar sent Tarin and Coën out to get some fresh air. They found Rowan sitting on one of the walls surrounding the keep, watching the witchers train. His eyes were wide, his mouth open, and Coën knew before he sat next to him that he was watching Remy train. “He that good?” Coën teased.

“Yeah,” Rowan murmured, slightly breathless. “The only hit he’s taken was from Ealdred.”

“We watch them every year,” Tarin chirped, shoving red hair from his eyes as he peered down into the courtyard. “You never go all gooey over them.”

Coën opened his mouth to joke about how none of them had ever made Rowan mewl like a kitten before but snapped it shut with an audible clack. That would mean admitting he had listened to the whole thing, which was only a griffin’s feather vein away from admitting he had come on his mattress because of it. He didn’t fully understand why that part of the ritual was conducted in the dormitories while in private—perhaps something to do with safety for the adept—but it certainly wasn’t for the rest of the dorm to get off on it.

“I, uh, I booked our tattoos in with the Keep Mothers,” Coën said, diverting to safer ground. “They said they could fit us in next week, and they’ll do the first of your swords, too.” One sword for becoming a squire and the second added when one survived their first year on the Path. 

“Ahh, great,” Rowan slapped Coën on the shoulder, took the wineskin offered to him, and they all went back to spectating. Twenty minutes in, Remy glanced up and bowed his chin to Rowan with a small smile. Rowan turned the colour of Tarin’s hair. 

The evening drew in, and they assembled in the grand hall for dinner. Rowan looked hopefully towards the big table and guffawed in delight when he saw the free seat left for him on Remy’s right side. “I’m going,” he told Coën, eyes bright.

Coën forced a toothy grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’d be a fool not to. He seems good.”

“Yeah,” Rowan leaned in to bump foreheads. “I’ll see you up there soon.”

“Soon.”

With this, Rowan ran his hands over his head to check his braids were straight, puffed his chest to make himself look as big as he could, and strolled over. Remy looked up from his meal and then rose to his feet as Rowan cleared his throat. “My destiny and my honour, linked with yours.” The other griffin witchers around them roared in ascent, banging their cutlery and tankards against the table, and Remy leaned in to place their foreheads together, one hand cupping the back of Rowan’s neck.

“Take your seat then, my squire,” Remy rumbled and then dropped down to continue eating. The witchers piled Rowan’s plate high, and he was soon absorbed in their conversations. Coën took his usual seat and tried to ignore the empty one next to him. It wasn’t for long. Soon he would start his own journey, and this loneliness, this fear and panic that seemed to be haunting him, would all be a thing of the past.

In the week that followed, two more witchers visited the dormitory. The first came for Flavian, who shook and sobbed so miserably that his witcher—known affectionately by his friends as Big Berty—stopped, gathering his chosen fledgling into his arms. “This doesn’t mean you’ve failed,” Bert whispered gently, “it’s alright, little one. We can work on it. My destiny and my honour, linked with yours.” Flavian calmed, but Bert didn’t leave immediately; he curled up in the tiny, narrow cot and stroked Flavian until he came with a soft, muted grunt, embarrassed. 

The witcher left Flavian clean and comfortable and then sought him out the following day to check on him. He was a true behemoth of a man; barreled chest, broad shoulders, with a flat nose and solid brow, but Coën could see a heart as gentle as Ulric’s. Flavian tried to save face before his friends, puffing his chest, but Big Berty only cooed at him in affectionate amusement. They were a good match. Berty would take the edge off of Flavian’s arrogance, teaching him a little humility and patience, while Berty could probably use someone to make him move a little faster in… everything. If he got any more laid back, he’d probably be permanently horizontal. 

Flavian approached the empty seat at dinner and accepted his place at Berty’s side.

The second came for Zane. By far the quietest member of the four boys that had come of age in the previous month, Coën reasoned that he was, perhaps, saving it all up for the bedroom after his athletic performance. Grant, a slightly older witcher that had been on the Path for around fifty years, found himself on his back with the sprightly fledgling sitting on his stomach and then his cock very soon after. When they were done, Grant whistled at the ceiling. “Do you think I have enough energy to keep up with you?”

“You’ll do,” Zane said, yawning into the big, fluffy chest beneath him.

Grant chuckled. “Very well. My destiny and my honour, linked with yours.” 

Another good match; energy and youth with stability and experience. Zane took his seat at the witcher’s table. 

Four days later, Coën sat with Aibnat in one of the workrooms, sticking his fingers with a sewing needle because even his ability to patch a shirt had abandoned him. “I’ve messed up my chance,” he said, hissing as another pinprick of blood welled out of his fingertip.

“You’re overthinking it,” Aibnat slapped his hands away and reviewed his work with an impatient huff through her nose. “Just like you’re overthinking this. Look, you’ve dropped five stitches. _Five._ Coën.” 

“Devil take your stitches,” he huffed, shoving the shirt, thread and needle from his lap. “Who needs to sew anyway. That’s Keep Mother work.” He regretted the words the very second they left his mouth. Not only was it _devastatingly_ disrespectful, but it was foolish; naive. There were no Keep Mothers on the Path. “Nat, I—.”

“Don’t bother,” she sighed, arms folded over her chest. “Foolish _boys_ say foolish things. I’ll forgive you, but you need to leave now because I’m angry and am therefore liable to stab you with this knitting needle.”

“Yes,” Coën nodded quickly, ducking his head in a bow as he backed towards the door. “Is there anything I can—?”

“Coën!”

“Right, yes, going.” 

As Coën stepped into the corridor, he cursed himself for driving away from his final friend. Well, not _away._ Aibnat wasn’t quite as dramatic as all that, but he deserved her ire. _That’s Keep Mother’s work?_ He was a fool like she said. What was he becoming? A poor initiate and an even worse friend. This wasn’t him. Not who he wanted to be. He needed to get back to his roots.

Coën wandered with his thoughts, drifting from chore to chore. He helped Merek in the kitchens and played with the Chicks in the copse behind the keep. They took it in turns to leap at him from canopies, and he caught them without fail. There were a few bumps and bruises, a quivering lip here and there, but he gave each bruise a gentle rub and sent them on their way as the instructors had done for him.

He didn’t realise that two wise honey-rich eyes were watching from a balcony high in one of the castle towers.

***

Erland picked over the slice of wild boar and apple sauce on his plate. His appetite hadn’t yet returned properly from the summit. He never ate well when on diplomatic missions. The pressure of maintaining appearances, of _getting it right_ , was too much. It took his body a little while to come down from the pressure. The small, doubtful voice in the back of his head that made him question everything he’d built, everything he’d fought for, was always louder in the aftermath. _What if_ — _?_

It was for this reason he supposed that he’d decided to worry himself with the squireship this year. Usually, it all took its natural course; a squire was a responsibility, yes, but an honour. 

His gaze fell on the remaining boy for the tenth time that evening. He hadn’t really eaten properly in days, either. He kept casting quick, furtive glances at his friends on the other table, trying to keep it discreet. Every night, he returned to his dormitory, covered in bumps and bruises, with his head bowed.

Erland elbowed Keldar. “Tell me about Coën.”

Keldar blinked and heaved a sigh. “Ahh, my dear boy,” he leaned back, swigging a mouthful of ale. “Brilliant young man. Intelligent, kind-hearted and genuine. Fantastic with Signs and the crossbow as you’d expect, balance is impeccable, has a little way to go with his swordwork, but he’s getting there.” One of Keldar’s responsibilities was to turn the instructors’ notes into something coherent for the records, so his handle on all the adepts and their progress was reliable.

“And why has no one selected him yet?”

“Coën suffers from nerves,” Keldar said fondly. “He places a lot of pressure on himself. He wants to do the right thing. Actually, he rather reminds me of another witcher I know.”

“Hmm,” Erland cast him a warning side-eye, only to receive an impertinent little smirk back. Only Keldar dared. His gaze swept over the rest of the witchers once more, weighing each face. Coën needed someone patient and careful but firm, someone who wouldn’t allow him to spiral with this anxiety. Someone who could teach him how to manage it safely on the Path; that would improve his swordwork and buff that kind heart to a golden shine. 

There was also the needs of the witcher. Coën would benefit someone who needed reminding _why_ they were on the Path in the first place; his vigour, his enthusiasm for the cause, would be contagious. “Send Ealdred to my office.”

“Ealdred? Is this about that dwarf of his?”

“In this case, I may be able to kill two birds with one stone.”

Erland knocked back the last of his wine and left the hall. Keldar decided to finish his meal before attending to his orders; Erland had said nothing about letting good boar go to waste.


End file.
